


Barba's Squad Room Walk

by adrianna_m_scovill



Series: Create Your Own Context [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 13:29:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: I wrote this back in December (three months ago!), when I was brand new to the SVU fanfiction world, as the result of a Twitter conversation about Barba being a potential victim. This is another short "Create Your Own Context" scene. I never posted it anywhere except Twitter, and had actually forgotten about it for quite a while.





	Barba's Squad Room Walk

Barba stopped in the doorway, pulling in a deep breath. His gaze cut to the lieutenant’s door, and he forced his feet to move, not daring to look at anyone. He’d gone only a few steps before he saw Rollins appear in his peripheral vision. “Barba?” she asked, and the concern in her voice was unhelpful. “Are you okay?”

“Rafael—” Carisi started, and both detectives were headed toward him.

Barba held up a hand, casting them a sideways look that stopped them in their tracks with matching frowns on their faces. Barba swallowed, glancing around. The room had gone quiet, painfully quiet; everyone was staring at him, and his footsteps faltered. He swallowed again, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Ahead of him, Benson appeared in her office doorway. For a moment—just a moment—her expression lit at the sight of him, and she started to smile. Then she really _saw_ him, and her happy recognition evaporated. She started forward, and he shook his head with a surge of panic. She stopped. She didn’t want to, but she stopped, because she knew that he wanted to flee. She could see it in his face. He knew that she could read him—she’d been dealing with victims for over twenty years.

 _Victims_ , he thought, his stomach churning. His gaze had slipped to the floor, and he swallowed again, pulling in another breath through his nose. She was waiting for him. He knew how difficult that must be for her, standing there, waiting, wondering, imagining, wanting desperately to come to him but knowing he didn’t want that.

He raised his eyes and met hers, and saw pain twisting her features. He saw her throat work as she swallowed, saw tears shining in her eyes. He lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders, hearing her voice in his head: _You have nothing to be ashamed of_. He took one step, and then another, keeping his eyes on Benson, ignoring the murmurs around him, ignoring everyone and everything but the lieutenant waiting for him.

Benson saw him gather his courage, saw him embrace his stubbornness, saw him start walking as though crossing the squad room would be the longest walk of his life. And she saw him finding his anger, saw him pulling it up, using it to push away his pain and humiliation. It took all of her willpower not to go to him; he needed to make this walk on his own, even though his tortured steps were like daggers to her heart.

His shirt was untucked, and streaked with grime and blood. He was wearing his suit jacket, but one sleeve was ripped at the shoulder. As he drew nearer, she could see that his lip was split and swollen, and there was a darkening bruise high on one cheek. His hair was muddy, stuck to his forehead.

His eyes were what really mattered, though. The pain, the shame, the anger—his every emotion was shining in his green eyes, and she felt her heart breaking for him. She wondered what good she was doing at her job if she couldn’t protect the people she loved, keep them from this pain.

“Rafa,” she said, and she saw his face start to crumple. He bit his lip but winced and quickly released it. He shook his head. She stepped aside, but as he passed into the office, she put a hand on his arm, unable to stop herself. He pulled away and started pacing as she closed the door, cutting them off from the concerned looks of her squad. “Talk to me, Rafael,” she said, putting a hand to her throat.

He continued to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists, glancing at her, tears burning in his eyes, his jaw tight with growing anger and agitation.

He couldn’t talk, not yet, she could see that, and so she said the only thing she could think to offer him: “You’re safe, Rafa. You survived. You made it here, you’re safe, now.”

He stopped and stared at her, his chest rising and falling, his mouth working. Finally, he said, “Liv,” his voice cracking on her name, and she crossed the distance between them, taking him into her arms. For a moment he just stood there, trembling, and then he pressed his forehead against her shoulder and clutched at her like a drowning man to a life preserver.


End file.
